


Laughter

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic was written for Day 1 of Cat x Ned Week on tumblr. Day One fics had to take place in the time frame between the births of Ned and Catelyn and their marriage.</p><p>This is the story of a little girl born into house of love and laughter, the experiences that conspired to drive her laughter away, and her strong, determined spirit and stubborn hope that she could still find that laughter once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter

Young Catelyn Tully always loved to laugh. Her father would say that his firstborn daughter came into the world laughing instead of crying like other newborn babes, although she always knew he was only teasing about that by the twinkle in his blue eyes. Mother would smile and laugh when he said it, though, and Catelyn thought the sound of her mother’s laughter was the happiest sound in the world. Even her sister Lysa, who so often had her lower lip stuck out in a pout over some unmet desire, couldn’t help laughing when Mother did, and so Catelyn’s earliest memories were filled with laughter--her own, her parents’, her sister’s, even Petyr’s once he came to Riverrun, and finally Baby Edmure’s squealing giggles.

There was much to smile and laugh about in those years--swimming and splashing in the waters around Riverrun, chasing the other children through the woods with her bare feet muddy and her copper hair escaping Mother’s careful braids, picnics in the godswood or on the riverbank with Mother (those were always best when Father came, too!), learning to ride horseback, listening to singers and poets and musicians in the Hall, she and Lysa getting to wear beautiful blue and red matching dresses when important people came to visit her father, and listening to her mother’s stories and songs before she fell asleep most nights. She knew that one day she would grow up and that she would be wed to a lord and become lady of her own castle, but that seemed a distant dream more than anything else. Riverrun was her home. Father and Mother and Lysa and Edmure and even funny little Petyr were her family. The sound of her laughter was forever ringing through the air, and she simply knew that her life would always be happy. 

Family, Duty, Honor. These were her House Words, and she held them in her heart with joy. As much as she loved her family, it was no difficult thing to be dutiful to them. She wanted her parents to be proud of her always. As for honor, well she knew not to tell lies and to always try to live by the teachings of the Seven. And if she didn’t _always_ do _everything_ her septa told her to, she did at least try to be mostly good. And her father always told her she brought honor to House Tully which made her prouder than anything else. So, she grew bigger and older, knowing little except laughter and love.

Until all the laughter stopped. She’d been waiting with Lysa, trying to keep Edmure amused, laughing half-heartedly at Petyr’s japes. Waiting for news of her new brother or sister. She hoped it was a brother, for she knew that Mother and Father both wanted another boy. But when she finally learned this babe was indeed a boy, the news brought no joy to her or anyone else. For her mother was gone. And the babe gone soon after her.

No one laughed, ever. Catelyn cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, and then she was simply silent. Her father was silent as well--more somber than she’d ever known him and even quicker to rage in anger than when Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken were both at Riverrun. Lysa wailed endlessly even after Catelyn’s tears were all spent, and Edmure seemed confused and lost, repeatedly asking for his mother.

Petyr seemed sad, too, although it occurred to Catelyn that he was sadder about the fact that she no longer wanted to play in the godswood or by the river than that none of them would ever again hear Mother’s laugh. She tried not to be angry about that. Mother wasn’t Petyr’s mother after all. But she did get tired of him forever telling her to smile, or laugh, or come and play, only to get angry at her when she didn’t. She couldn’t do those things. She just couldn’t, and it wasn’t fair for him to get angry.

She thought that life would be nothing but this terrible, heavy grief forever, but somehow things gradually changed within the walls of Riverrun. Edmure needed her. He clung to her as he’d once clung to Mother, and she began doing for him all the things Mother had done. It wasn’t intentional. She just sort of fell into it because he needed her. And on rare occasions, she began to find herself laughing at the silly things her little brother would do.

Lysa needed someone, too. Catelyn could plainly see that once she started opening her eyes enough to truly see her family again--to see anything beyond the heavy curtain of her own grief. She tried to comfort her sister, to help her with hair and listen to her troubles, and sometimes Lysa seemed to like that. But at other times, she seemed to get even more upset, and she’d scream at Catelyn that she wasn’t Mother as if Catelyn wasn’t already more than aware of that. As if Mother’s absence hadn’t left a hole in her heart so enormous that Catelyn feared she might simply fall into that hole and disappear completely some days.

Father needed her, too. At first, she tried to help her silent, sad, and too angry father simply by being good. She’d always been good, of course, but now she truly endeavored to be perfect. If Edmure was loud, Catelyn was quiet. If Lysa complained, and cried, and demanded Father’s attention, Catelyn smiled at him and told him she was quite well and needed nothing. She couldn’t quite laugh for him in those days, but she could make herself smile.

Over time, her father began to smile back. He started keeping her beside him as he worked in his solar, showing her his ledgers and the correspondence from his bannermen. He took her with him when he discussed meals and other household management with the steward. These were tasks that had been Mother’s before, and Catelyn had often seen how her mother handled them. It was a little thing to tell her father she could do these things for him. Father smiled widely at her then, telling her what a blessing from the Seven she was, and how she forever brought honor to their House. If anyone thought it odd that a girl so young was gradually given so much of the responsibility for managing the castle, they did not question their lord about it, and she thought she must be managing sufficiently well for she heard no grumblings either.

As more time passed, laughter began to return to Riverrun in earnest, even if Catelyn knew it would never be as it was before. She learned to laugh again herself, even if her laughter would never come as easily as it had when Mother was alive. She even found time to once again go to the godswood or go swimming with the other children, even if she spent as much time supervising Edmure as actually playing herself.

She did play, though. She could still defeat Petyr and Lysa easily in swimming races, and they’d always cry “Unfair!” because she was older. She’d allow them head starts and still win though, and she’d laugh and tell them that proved she was the better swimmer. Sooner than any of them liked, she’d always have to return to the castle, either because Edmure was tired or because her father had need of her to do something. Then the laughter would stop. Petyr would be angry at her, and Lysa would pout both about Catelyn leaving and about Petyr’s begging her to stay.

Shortly before her thirteenth name day, her father made an announcement of great importance. She was to be betrothed to the eldest son and heir of Lord Rickard Stark. One day, she would be the Lady of Winterfell. She knew she should feel something about that. It was a very good match. The Starks of Winterfell were one of the Great Houses, and other than wedding her to Prince Rhaegar himself, her father could have achieved no better marriage for her. She truly would bring honor to House Tully in this. Yet, she didn’t feel anything. A marriage to someone she’d never met didn’t feel real. Her father took her silence as apprehension and assured her that she would not be wed for years yet, and she nodded somewhat numbly. Then she thanked him for arranging such a splendid match for her and promised that she would do all she could to be a good wife and lady to Brandon Stark.

Three days later, when the shock had worn off, she asked Maester Vyman for any books in Riverrun’s library that might tell her of Winterfell and House Stark. She was seated beside a window reading one of those when Petyr came to find her.

“Come swimming with us, Cat.”

“I can’t right now, Petyr,” she said absently, not looking up from the book.

“Yes, you can. You aren’t doing anything right now.”

She sighed and looked up at him then. “You can see that isn’t true. I’m reading.”

He sat down next to her and put his hand on her arm. “What are you reading?”

“It’s a history of the Starks of Winterfell,” she mumbled. “I never realized exactly how old Winterfell is. It’s been there more than a thousand years, Petyr! Imagine that!”

“Cold and dark and crumbling, no doubt,” he said dismissively.

“Oh, no. It’s an enormous castle, with all sorts of towers and things that have been added over the centuries. There are a few illustrations. Do you want to see?” She held the book out toward him, and he shocked her by actually knocking it from her hands to the floor.

“No, I don’t want to see, Cat! And don’t act like you’re happy about this because I know you aren’t. It’s freezing in the North. You’ll never go swimming again and you’ll never even go outside except wrapped up all in furs. The Northmen are all smelly barbarians--they’re descended from the First Men, you know--just like the wildlings north of the Wall.” Petyr scowled. “Mayhap they should have built the Wall across the Neck.”

“Petyr Baelish, you are being awful! I don’t know what you think you know about House Stark, but it is one of the Great Houses just like House Tully, and so much older! And as for the Wall, a Stark built it--Brandon the Builder, they called him. He’s in the book!”

“I don’t care about the book, Cat! I care about you. You belong at Riverrun. Tell your father you won’t marry this Brandon Stark and stay here with us!”

Petyr looked almost as if he were going to cry, and Catelyn remembered that he was still a few moons shy of his tenth nameday. Sighing, she tried not to be angry with him. “Petyr, I won’t be leaving for a long time. We’ll have years together here still. I promise. And if you like, I’ll put the book back in the library and come swimming with you and Lysa.”

“Or we could play the kissing game,” he said, smiling at her. “We could play that right here if you like.”

She shook her head. Petyr’s moods could shift so quickly at times, she found it difficult to keep up. The kissing game had been Lysa’s idea, and Petyr had embraced it enthusiastically, kissing first one sister and then the other upon their lips. Catelyn had thought it silly, but had to admit she’d been curious as to how a boy’s lips would feel up against hers and so she’d allowed it. It hadn’t been at all unpleasant until Petyr had tried to stick his tongue in her mouth, and she’d pulled away shocked. Lysa had later confessed that he’d done the same to her and that she’d liked it. Catelyn couldn’t imagine what had ever given Petyr the idea to do such a thing, and she was quite certain that Lysa only claimed to like it because she always liked any idea Petyr had.

“Petyr, you know I can’t play kissing games any more. I’m betrothed now!” she told him.

“So? You aren’t getting married for years, remember? And it’s only kissing. It’s only a game, Cat.”

“That’s fine for you to say. You and Lysa are still children. Games are fine for you. I’m nearly three and ten, and I am promised to Brandon Stark. I have to behave like a proper young maiden now.”

Petyr bristled, and that didn’t surprise her. He hadn’t like being called a child even when he was Edmure’s age. “You don’t know anything about what happens to proper young maidens once they’re wedded, Cat. I could tell you, but I won’t. You just remember when Brandon Stark takes you away that I would never ever hurt you.”

He turned to go, and she found herself wondering what he meant. Petyr was just a little boy, but in some ways he had even more freedom than she did. He could go to the stables or the armory and listen to the talk of the men. If she ever went to those places, the men would stop talking and immediately bow and ask what they could do for her. People often ignored Petyr. That bothered him, she knew, but he also took advantage of it in order to find things out. Petyr loved to know things he wasn’t supposed to know.

“What do you mean?” she called after him. “My father says Brandon Stark is an honorable man from a great house. He wouldn’t hurt me.” She hated the uncertainty in her voice.

Petyr turned around to face her, and Catelyn regretted calling him back when she saw the sly, satisfied smile on the boy’s face. He knew he’d worried her, and she hated seeing the satisfaction that gave him. She loved him almost as much as she loved Lysa and Edmure, but he was often more clever than kind, and that she didn’t love that at all.

“How old is Brandon Stark, Cat?” he asked, rather than answering her question.

“He’s nearly six and ten,” she replied. “Why?”

“Then he’s more than old enough to bed a girl,” Petyr said matter-of-factly. “The blacksmith’s son’s bedded both of the horse master’s daughters, and he just turned five and ten.”

Catelyn blushed a deep red. This was not a suitable topic of conversation. She had some notion of what went on between a man and his wife in bed to bring about a child, and she knew that people could dishonor themselves by doing it outside of marriage. That’s how bastards came about. But, she honestly didn’t know very much about it except that she shouldn’t be discussing it with Petyr.

“Petyr, you shouldn’t say such things. You . . .”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I tell you the truth? Lord Hoster never will.” He walked back to stand directly in front of her.

“Don’t you say that about my father!” Catelyn protested. 

“But it’s the truth. He’ll tell you about family and duty and honor, and how you’re going to be a great lady of a great castle. But he won’t tell you that all Brandon Stark will want is to get you naked and shove his cock between your legs over and over while scream and thrash around.”

“Stop it, Petyr. Stop it!” Catelyn told him, holding her hands over her ears and feeling tears in her eyes.

“It’s true!” he insisted. “I was hiding in the stables the day Bart brought old Merrick’s second daughter there. I watched him do it to her, and I know it hurt her. She cried, Cat. And there was blood. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to stick her with his cock. The men talk about that all the time, you know. All men do it. High lords just the same as blacksmith’s sons. And when it’s your wife, you can do it to her as much as you want, and she can’t ever tell you no. Because that’s her duty, Cat.”

Catelyn was crying now. She knew Petyr was intentionally trying to upset her, but she couldn’t help being a little frightened at his words. “Please stop saying that, Petyr,” she begged him. “Please. You’re still just a boy. You don’t know everything about it. You can’t possibly know everything.” 

“No,” he agreed. “But I know more than you even if you are older. And I know I would never hurt you. And if you want, I’ll find a way to keep Brandon Stark from ever taking you away from here.”

As nasty as his voice had been only a moment before, there was nothing but fierce loyalty and protectiveness in it as he spoke those last words, and Catelyn found herself less angry at him. “If he is cruel, Petyr, my father will never make me go,” she assured him, still sniffling a bit, but having successfully stopped her tears. “I don’t think I want to go swimming now, though. If you would excuse me, I’d like to go to my room.”

She didn’t say anything else, and Petyr didn’t try to stop her as she walked past him down the corridor, the book on the Starks of Winterfell abandoned on the floor where it had fallen.

It took her nearly a fortnight to summon the courage to speak to her septa about matters of the marriage bed, but Petyr’s words haunted her. She could barely eat and she never smiled. Her father and sister repeatedly asked her what was wrong, but she couldn’t imagine asking her questions to her father, and Lysa would know no more than she did.

So, stammering and blushing furiously, she finally asked the septa if she could tell her about her duties as a wife so she could be prepared. When the woman launched into a lecture on managing household staff, hosting feasts, and instructing children in the faith of the Seven, she blushed even more deeply and asked for more information on specifically getting those children.

At that, Septa’s face paled a bit, but then she nodded and sat down across from Catelyn. “The gods have fashioned a woman’s body to be desirable to a man,” she began. “Your lord husband will want to have your body for himself, and that is how it should be, for it is the joining of a man and wife that bring about children.”

Catelyn nodded, thinking that she already knew that much, but wanting to encourage the woman to provide further information.

“For a maiden, the act can be painful at first,” she continued. “But it is a bride’s duty to accept that pain and simply pray that a child may come from it. A man derives great pleasure from the act and may desire it often. If a wife does not submit to this desire, he may compel her, causing her pain, or seek his pleasure in a sinful manner outside the marriage bed which will bring forth bastards rather than trueborn children.”

“Does it always hurt?” Catelyn heard herself asking in a voice barely above a whisper.

“No, child,” the septa said gently. “I am unmarried, of course, but I understand that it is not painful or even unpleasant beyond the first few times. An honorable husband will grateful to a wife who willingly gives him her body, especially once she has also given him children. You will earn his gratitude and respect.”

 _And affection?_ Catelyn wondered. She remembered well enough how her parents had cared for each other. Her father had always spoken so gently to mother. She couldn’t imagine him ever doing anything to Mother that would hurt her so badly that she screamed and thrashed about as Petyr had described.

“Do you . . .understand precisely what it is that a man does when he . . .” the septa started then.

Catelyn nodded quickly. She knew enough and had no wish to discuss that with her septa. “I . . .yes. I only . . .wanted to know if it would hurt,” she said, “and if there was something I needed to do or . . .”

“You will be fine, Lady Catelyn,” the septa assured her. “The gods have blessed you with beauty which will please your lord husband. Simply embrace him and allow him to kiss and touch you as he wishes, and you shall no doubt please him very much. And he will be inclined to honor you greatly.”

Her conversation with the septa had done little to make Catelyn eagerly anticipate that particular aspect of marriage, but at least she had assurance from someone she could trust that Petyr’s descriptions of it were not accurate at least. Over the following days and moons, she managed to put such thoughts out of her mind, contenting herself with the knowledge that her wedding was far away, and spending her days much as she had since her mother’s death, as not entirely the lady of the castle and not entirely the laughing little girl, but forever someone in between the two.

Brandon Stark wrote her a few brief letters ostensibly so that they could get to know each other, although he shared little information in his. She responded with somewhat longer letters which she hoped conveyed her desire to be a good and dutiful wife to him. She told him of Riverrun and her family there, hoping he would tell her more of Winterfell, but it seemed he was simply not a man for letters as his never increased in length or frequency.

When he finally came to visit Riverrun with his lord father more than a full year after the betrothal had been announced, the first thing that struck her was his laugh. He was laughing with one of his men as he dismounted from his horse in the courtyard, and she was struck by the freedom and fierce joy in the sound. He laughed loudly and with abandon, and she recalled her own laughter once being that free. The sound of it made her smile.

When he approached her, she could see that he was much taller than she, and that he was a very handsome man. He had dark brown hair that blew away from his face in the light breeze. His skin was fair like hers, but without freckles, and his eyes were a stunning grey color that caused her heart to beat a bit faster when he looked at her.

“Lady Catelyn,” he said in a warm, deep voice after her father’s introduction. “I had heard that you were beautiful, but I never dreamed you would be as lovely as this.” Then he bent and kissed her hand, and Catelyn felt lightheaded at the touch of his lips on her skin there. 

Her hand had been kissed by any number of men through the years and she’d never reacted in such a way. But the spark in Brandon Stark’s grey eyes and the smile he’d given her--with one side of his mouth turning up so much further than the other had started her an odd flutter in her chest, and when his lips touched the back of her hand, it felt more intimate than any touch she’d ever known. Certainly more intimate than Petyr’s fumbling kisses to her lips when they were children.

She enjoyed Brandon’s visit, and whenever she felt that odd fluttering because he’d looked at her, she thought that the Septa had only told her half the story when she’d said the gods fashioned women to be desirable to men. She found herself wondering what her betrothed look like beneath his clothes, and then she would flush with shame for thinking such dishonorable thoughts. Mostly, though, she liked his laugh. The sound of it made her want to laugh with him, much as her mother’s laughter used to do.

His conversation left her frustrated at times. He dismissed her questions about Winterfell and the North with brief answers or amusing stories about himself. He never asked her much about herself or her family. He did tell her frequently how beautiful she was, however, and he danced beautifully. They had dancing after dinner four times during the Starks’ visit, and she enjoyed those nights most of all. 

After one of those evenings of dancing, he kissed her in the godswood. Not on the hand, but right on the lips, and her legs had gone weak. He’d pulled her against him and pressed at her lips with his tongue, and she’d had a momentary awful memory of how Petyr had once stuck his tongue in her mouth, but this kiss felt nothing like Petyr’s, and she had just started to open her lips to his when she heard her septa’s shocked and disapproving voice call out her name.

Brandon immediately let her go and pulled away, his confident grin in place as he turned to face the angry septa. “Forgive me, Septa,” he said contritely. “I would not do anything to dishonor my lady, I assure you, but I fear her beauty compelled me to taste her lips. For all else, I will wait until we are wed. You have my word.” He turned to wink at Catelyn then before walking past the speechless septa and out of the godswood.

That kiss earned Catelyn a stern lecture about wanton behavior and it ensured that she and Brandon were never again left alone for even a moment for the duration of the visit, but it also made her believe that just maybe she could truly love Brandon Stark. Perhaps, she would find again the laughter she’d known as a child.

Brandon visited fairly regularly after that. Riverrun was a long way from Barrowton where he was fostered and even further from Winterfell, so the visits were not as frequent as Catelyn would have liked, but she always looked forward to them. In between visits, there were letters, but always too brief and infrequent. When he was at Riverrun, though, he was ever charming, and the few kisses they shared when they managed to steal away from everyone took her breath away. She discovered she quite liked having his tongue against hers and would lie in bed imagining him touching her in any number of places that likely would have caused her septa to lock her away if she knew about it.

As the years passed, she found herself looking forward to her marriage and even getting frustrated by her father’s delays. Her father wanted her to be the Lady of Winterfell, but seemed to be in no hurry to actually send her there. Lysa seemed to vacillate between wanting her gone immediately and being terrified that she might leave too soon. Her sister was growing into a lovely maiden herself, and Father had made a few half-hearted inquiries on her behalf, but there was no betrothal on the horizon for Lysa. Catelyn thought that would bother her sister because, for all the love between them, she knew Lysa had always envied her. But rather than envy her betrothal, Lysa seemed content to spend her days with Petyr, whom Edmure had teasingly nicknamed Littlefinger, much to everyone’s amusement except Petyr’s.

The nickname was rather clever, especially for a boy as young as Edmure, for Petyr’s father was a minor lord with a tiny keep on a rocky outcropping of land known as The Fingers, and Petyr was fairly short in stature. At eight, Edmure was gaining on Petyr rapidly in height in spite of Petyr’s being nearly four and ten, and Catelyn was becoming rather certain that Petyr would never be as tall as she was, although he might just catch Lysa who was a couple inches shorter than she.

Still, in spite of its cleverness, Catelyn tried to avoid using the nickname which had rapidly become ubiquitous throughout the castle because she knew how much Petyr hated it. Of course, Petyr was cross with her nearly all the time anyway because the only thing Petyr hated worse than his nickname was Brandon Stark. He still occasionally felt compelled to tell her how terrible marriage to Brandon would be. When the serving girl was sent away two moons after one of Brandon’s visits, he couldn’t wait to tell Catelyn the reason, and she’d cried bitterly when she’d realized his words were true. 

Yet, she recalled her septa’s words clearly enough. She’d told her that when a man’s desires were not met by his wife, his needs could cause him to seek out other women. Catelyn knew that Brandon desired her, but as she was not his wife yet, she could not allow him more than the kisses that she knew served only to set both of them more on fire. She told herself that it would be different once she was his wife. Once she was his wife, she could meet all his needs, and he would have no need of other women.

She couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at other girls after that, however. Looks and smiles and laughs that she’d once believed he gave to her alone were directed toward serving girls and the visiting daughters of her father’s bannermen in equal measure. Still, he was ever respectful toward her and always eager for her own kisses, and she told herself it was simply the way of men.

By the time Petyr challenged Brandon to that ridiculous duel, she no longer fancied herself madly in love with the future Lord Stark. She realized to her chagrin that with as little substantive conversation as they’d shared during his visits over the years, she didn’t even know him very well, but she did like him. She certainly liked kissing him. She hoped that after their marriage, they could build on these things at Winterfell. And it didn’t truly matter whether she loved him or not. He would be her husband, and she would be his wife, and they would share a home and a bed. She accepted that, and if her life in Winterfell wouldn’t bring quite the abundant joy and laughter she had once fantasized it might, it would be a good life. She was determined to make it that.

So, when Petyr--poor silly, little Petyr--suddenly declared his love for her and actually had the gall to challenge Brandon to a duel for her hand, Catelyn only did what she must. She did what was right. She begged Petyr not to go through with it, offered to plead with Brandon to call the whole thing off if he’d only apologize, and refused his request for a favor to wear when he stubbornly persisted in his intent. She hated the way he looked at her when she gave Brandon her favor instead, but Brandon was her betrothed, her future husband, her family. Family, Duty, Honor. What had Petyr expected of her?

The duel itself would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so potentially deadly. Brandon was a man. He’d trained for years with a sword and fought in tournaments. Petyr was little more than a boy. Brandon kept telling him to surrender, and Petyr kept stubbornly refusing. Finally, in frustration, Brandon gave him a vicious slash which dropped him to the ground and made Catelyn scream. She ran forward to grab Brandon’s arm, realizing that in the heat of the moment he truly intended to finish Petyr off. Tearfully, she begged him to spare the boy’s life. 

For a moment, she thought he was too far gone with battle lust to pay her any heed, but then he lowered his sword and looked at her briefly before turning back to Petyr. With a quick movement of that sword, he gave the boy another slash just deep enough to leave a scar and told him it should serve as reminder not to challenge his betters. Then he walked away in disgust.

Lysa and Edmure had both been watching, and Lysa came forward and threw herself over Petyr who was looking up at Catelyn. Catelyn bit her lip and shook her head. She told Edmure to run for the maester and then turned to follow Brandon. She knew her duty.

Catelyn found very little joy in the days that followed that one. Petyr’s injuries were tended, but Father insisted upon sending him home in disgrace for the insult he’d given to Brandon and the dishonor that reflected upon House Tully. Catelyn was saddened by that, but she honestly didn’t know what else Father could do. Petyr’s insistence that she should wed him was ridiculous, and she would have found it very uncomfortable to have him still living in the castle.

Lysa, however, reacted as if the world had ended. She’d begged Father to let Petyr stay, actually going down on her knees in front of him and sobbing as she pled. Her father had looked at her sister with an expression that Catelyn could not quite read, but that made her shudder, and he had, of course, refused to be moved. She’d tried to comfort Lysa, but her sister didn’t want to look at her, much less speak to her for a very long time.

Her father did finally agree to a date for her marriage to Brandon, and preparations were well underway as that date approached. Brandon came once more for a brief visit before then, kissing her fiercely and promising that they would be wed upon his return. Yet, when the day arrived, Brandon did not, for his sister had been stolen away by Rhaegar Targaryen and he’d ridden south to confront the prince.

He was summarily arrested and his father called to King’s Landing to answer for his son’s offense against the crown. Catelyn wondered if anyone other than Brandon was demanding that anyone answer for the offense against Lyanna Stark. When word came to Riverrun that Mad Aerys had executed both Brandon and his father, she went numb. Lysa, who’d barely spoken to her since Petyr’s departure, actually cried out and came to put her arms around her, but Catelyn couldn’t feel anything at all.

Hours later, Edmure came to her room and crawled into her bed to curl up beside her as he had when he was very small. “I’m sorry, Cat,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to go away with Brandon. But I’m sorry the bad king killed him.”

Only then, pulling her little brother tightly against her, was Catelyn able to cry.

She thought that was the end of it. She would not be the Lady of Winterfell after all. The Stark family history she had committed to memory over the years would serve no purpose. She would never lay her hand against the walls within Winterfell to see if they truly did pulse with warmth derived from water magically heated by the earth itself. She would never know a summer’s day in which the sun shone well into the night or a winter’s day in which it barely shone at all. She was only Catelyn Tully, daughter of Riverrun, once more. Except that Catelyn Tully had known how to laugh and smile, and whoever she was now, she couldn’t seem to remember how to do that at all.

Almost before she got used to the idea of not being betrothed, she learned she was to be betrothed once more. King Aerys had called for Brandon’s younger brother Eddard and for Lyanna Stark’s betrothed--Lord Robert Baratheon--to come to King’s Landing. Old Lord Arryn refused to give them up and had called the banners of the Vale. Lord Baratheon and the man who was now Lord Stark had called their banners as well which put nearly half the Seven Kingdoms in open rebellion against the crown. The new Lord Stark had also sent her father a letter, offering to uphold the agreement made between Lord Rickard and himself by wedding Catelyn and making her the Lady of Winterfell after all.

Her father went to Stoney Sept and fought beside the rebels. He came home from that battle with word of not one marriage, but two. She was, indeed, to marry Lord Eddard Stark, Brandon’s brother, and Lysa was to marry Lord Jon Arryn, a man older than their own father. In exchange for two daughters becoming the Ladies of Great Houses, the rebels would have Lord Tully and the Riverlands in their war against the Targaryens. But there would be no long betrothal this time. No frustratingly brief letters. No sporadic visits filled with dancing and stolen kisses. Lords Stark and Arryn would arrive at Riverrun very soon, and the weddings would take place immediately.

Lysa became hysterical, screaming that she couldn’t marry Lord Arryn, which made no sense at all to Catelyn. She sympathized with her sister as she wouldn’t wish to marry an old man either, but there was no reason she actually couldn’t wed him. And while it was not a match that would inspire a song, it was a very good match. Lysa’s son would one day rule the Vale just as Catelyn’s son would one day rule the North. And Catelyn had learned that life was not a song on the long ago day when Mother had died.

Catelyn simply thanked her father for once again making a match for her and promised him she would do her duty. When Lord Eddard arrived, she found herself childishly hoping that he would at least look a bit like Brandon and maybe laugh like Brandon. That hope was forlorn, however.

The man who dismounted in the courtyard and came up to greet her was obviously shorter than Brandon had been although he was still taller than she was. His face was long and plain, and half covered by a closely cropped beard. His hair was nearly the same color as Brandon’s--maybe a shade darker. When he stood before her and looked directly at her, she saw that his eyes were alarmingly like Brandon’s--the shape was the same as well as the startling grey color. Yet, where Brandon’s eyes were forever laughing, these eyes looked like they had never known laughter. Very little showed in Lord Eddard’s solemn face, but those eyes bore witness to a grief as deep as any she had ever felt.

“My lady,” he said softly, taking her hand. His voice was very deep, deeper even than Brandon’s had been, and it sounded colder to her ears.

“My lord,” she responded with a curtsy. 

He bowed over her hand and gave it a perfunctory kiss which caused her to feel nothing at all. She turned her eyes toward her sister as Lord Arryn kissed her hand and saw that while Lysa’s eyes were dry, her blue eyes looked as grief stricken as Lord Stark’s grey ones, and she wondered if hers looked the same.

 _Was there ever a more melancholy wedding,_ she wondered, _than the one we shall hold here tomorrow?_

When Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, and their men had been settled, a meal was served in the Great Hall. Catelyn was seated beside Lord Stark, but the two of them said nothing to each other and little to anyone else as they ate. As soon as the meal was finished, Lysa begged leave to go to her room. Catelyn didn’t think she’d spoken much to her future husband either. Lord Arryn retired as well, but Lord Stark lingered.

“My lady,” he finally said, turning toward her and looking as if the effort of even speaking those two words pained him somehow. “Would you walk with me?”

That surprised her. She didn’t want to walk with him, really. She didn’t want to marry him, either, but she would. And she had no cause to be discourteous to her future husband. “Certainly, my lord. Would you like to see the godswood?”

“I would like that very much,” he said, and his voice sounded marginally less tense than when he’d made his request.

He offered her his arm, and Catelyn took it. She saw Septa rise to follow them and saw her father raise a hand to stop her. She was grateful for that. Having any conversation with this man would be difficult enough without Septa glowering at him as if he would certainly tear her clothes off, unable to wait until after the ceremony tomorrow unless he was supervised.

They didn’t speak at all until they were in the godswood. “Brandon says it’s very different from your godswood in Winterfell,” she said then.

“It is,” Lord Eddard acknowledged. “But it is very beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She led him to a bench near the center of the godswood. “Would you like to sit down?”

“I would. Thank you, my lady,” he said formally. Brandon had never called her anything but Catelyn or Cat when they were alone in the godswood.

“What would you speak to me about, Lord Eddard?”

“I wish to tell you that I am sorry, my lady,” he said, and she wondered for a moment if he were apologizing for wedding her. “I am sorry for your loss.”

She realized then he meant Brandon. “Thank you,” she said. “But Brandon was your brother, and you have lost your father as well. I am so sorry, my lord.”

He sighed. “I thank you.” He looked directly into her eyes then, and Catelyn realized that Brandon had rarely done that except when he was looking for a kiss, and Lord Eddard did not appear to have kissing on his mind. “This is not the wedding you deserve, my lady,” he said finally. “And I am sorry for that as well. If I didn’t have to leave so soon to join Robert . . .” His voice trailed off as if he realized as well as she did that a few more days or weeks or even moons would likely not make this situation easier.

“I am content, my lord,” she assured him, hoping he couldn’t hear the lie in her voice. “You honor me with this marriage.”

“No,” he said almost sternly. Then he took a breath as if he’d realized he spoke too harshly. “You honor me, my lady. You are beautiful, and my brother spoke highly of you always, and . . .and I know I am not the husband you would have wished.” The grief she’d seen in his eyes upon his arrival was even more apparent now.

She couldn‘t truthfully deny what he‘d said. “Your brother always said you were the most honorable man he knew,” she said quickly, wanting to give him some comfort. Brandon had also called him dull and almost humorless, but she chose not to repeat that.

Lord Eddard actually made a sound almost like a laugh, although it was nothing like Brandon’s laugh, and there was still no smile on his face. “I imagine that was the most complimentary thing he ever said about me,” he said. “I fear my brother found me rather dull as a general rule. Not that we’ve spent much time in each other’s company since I was eight.”

That shouldn’t have shocked her. She knew that both Brandon and his brother had been fostered from a young age. She simply had never given much thought to what that meant--that they had spent more than half their lives living apart. She couldn’t imagine having grown up away from Lysa and Edmure. “But you did go to Winterfell frequently, didn’t you, my lord?” she asked him.

“We did. And our father tried to have our visits coincide whenever possible so that the family could all be together. But it isn’t the same as living there together. It can’t be.”

“No,” Catelyn sighed. “I suppose it can’t.”

They sat in silence for a few moments after that until he spoke again. “Are you certain you are . . .all right with this marriage, my lady?” he asked.

Again, he surprised her. She had no choice in the matter. Surely, he knew that. She supposed he had no real choice, either. Not if he wanted her father’s swords. “I am prepared to be your wife, my lord,” she assured him. “I have read every book in Riverrun regarding the Starks and Winterfell. I shall endeavor not to displease you.”

The iron control he seemed to exercise over his facial features seemed to slip just a bit then, and for a moment he looked truly stunned. “I have no doubt of that,” he said, recovering himself. “But I would please you as well, in whatever small way I can. As I said, I know I am not the husband you wished. I cannot be Brandon. But I will treat you well, my lady, and I will do all in my power to see that you are content. I want you to know that.”

He stumbled a bit over the words, but he spoke them firmly enough, and she got the distinct impression that he meant what he said. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “I am sorry that our wedding must take place amidst such grief, but I am content to wed you.”

As she said it, she realized that she was as content to wed him as she would be anyone else. An honorable man who promised to treat her well, a good name, a castle even larger than Riverrun--she could do far worse, and she had come to believe that it was folly to hope for much better.

They were silent again. “I am afraid my sister is not very happy,” she said, searching for some topic of conversation. “I hope Lord Arryn is not disappointed by that.”

“Your sister is young, and Jon is not. He knows well enough how she must feel. He will be kind to her. And keep her safe.”

His voice sounded odd to Catelyn, and then it hit her. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry. I know you must be worried for your own sister.” Nothing at all had been heard of Lyanna Stark since she had disappeared, and Catelyn felt like an idiot for speaking as if her own sister’s plight deserved as much concern.

He swallowed. “They never even got to see her,” he said very quietly, looking down at his hands. She knew he spoke of Brandon and his father. “No one has seen her in King’s Landing . . .if she is even there.” He shook his head, and said more forcefully, “She must be there! Where else would he take her?”

“I will pray for her,” Catelyn said softly, and the man beside her looked up at her once more.

“I am sorry, my lady. I should not speak to you of such troubles on the eve of our wedding,” he said sadly, and Catelyn looked at that somber face, wondering again if he had ever known how to smile or laugh. Then she thought of all he had lost and recalled how much more freely her own laughter had once come, and she reached out to touch his hand.

Her touch startled him, but he did not pull away. “It is the eve of our wedding,” she told him. “If I am to be your wife, is it not right that I share your burdens?”

His eyes widened a bit, and he looked at her carefully. “I had thought it my place to lighten yours,” he said simply. “You are kind. Brandon said you were. And once he said that. . .” His voice trailed off.

“What?” Catelyn asked him, genuinely curious about what else Brandon might have said.

“He only said it the once,” Lord Eddard emphasized, as if afraid she wouldn’t like what he said. “Mostly he spoke of your beauty--of your hair and your blue eyes and . . .” He stopped himself there, but Catelyn did know Brandon at least well enough to imagine what else he might have spoken of regarding her appearance, and her cheeks flushed. “And that . . .” Lord Eddard said then, looking at her with the softest expression she’d seen on his face since she’d met him. “That lovely color in your cheeks.”

The blush deepened at that, but still she pressed him, “But what did he say once?”

“Well, Lya . . .Lyanna, that is, had been pestering him for details about you. We were all at Winterfell for a time not long before that tournament at Harrenhal.” A scowl darkened his face as he said ’Harrenhal.’ Catelyn knew what had happened there with Prince Rhaegar and his sister and the crown of flowers. Brandon had raged about it. “So, Brandon was singing your praises, and Lya laughed and told him that surely there must be something that irritated him about you. He’d never met a girl that didn’t irritate him in some way for all that he loved them, after all!”

Immediately, Lord Eddard’s face looked distressed as he realized what he’d said. “I . . Forgive me, my lady. I should not . . .”

Her hand still rested on his and she squeezed it gently. “It is all right, Lord Eddard. I did know Brandon.” She smiled at him then, somewhat surprised herself at how easily the smile came.

He swallowed and nodded once. “He was always brash in his speech, my lady. Too brash. But still I should not say anything that . . .”

“He was too brash in his actions as well,” she said firmly, “But he was a good and honorable man, and neither of us speaks of him with any disrespect. We only speak honestly, my lord.”

His lips didn’t smile, but she could almost swear that a smile hid somewhere in the lightening of his grey eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “I begin to think that honest speech is something I can expect always from you, my lady.”

“Finish your story, please, my lord,” she told him, smiling once more.

He sighed. “He told Lya that you think too much. He said he’d never before met a girl who asked questions that were so difficult to answer or who gave such serious answers to silly questions. He punched me on the arm then and laughed and told Lya that on occasion you could get so thoughtful and serious that you reminded him of me.” His lip did twitch slightly then, curving up just slightly at the corners. “Except that you were beautiful rather than ugly as mud.”

Catelyn laughed then. She couldn’t help it. She thought that she might have been offended had she heard Brandon telling it, but to hear the story recounted by this solemn, quiet man with his self-deprecating manner made her laugh. When she stopped laughing, she realized he was looking at her with an entirely new expression on his face. It was less guarded, and there was something in his eyes--a smoky sort of look-- almost similar to Brandon’s when he’d been about to kiss her. 

“My gods, he was right,” Lord Eddard whispered. Catelyn looked at him quizzically, and he cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “Your laugh, my lady,” he said. “Brandon said it was a musical sound, a sound that went straight to his . . .well, a sound that he liked a great deal.” He looked down as if he were embarrassed, and Catelyn withdrew her hand from his lest the contact make him more uncomfortable.

“Well, I hope you punched him back for calling you ugly, Lord Eddard,” she said as brightly as she could, and he looked up again. “Brandon deserved to punched at times,” she said firmly.

He stared at her a moment, and she was afraid that she may have gone too far, but then his eyes lightened and his mouth did curve up into a smile which transformed his entire face. For a moment, she thought he might actually laugh, but he only nodded and said, “He did, my lady. At times, he certainly did.” The smile lingered on his face for only a moment before it was gone, but it left Catelyn wanting to see it again. Eddard Stark was not handsome like his brother, but when he smiled she had seen beauty in that long face.

“I am sorry if I strike you as too serious or thoughtful, my lord,” she said, recalling what Brandon had said to him of her. “I fear that laughter is not something that comes as easily as in my youth.”

“No,” he said. “That is true of both of us, I fear. But do not mistake me, my lady. While my brother may have found serious thought a detriment in a pretty maiden, I do not. I would have you speak your thoughts plainly to me always, for I believe that your mind may be as keen as your face is fair.”

“Then you would not have me laughing always?” she asked, half teasingly, uncertain of how else to respond to this man’s earnest praise of her intellect.

“Oh, I would,” he assured her. “As I said, I agree with my brother about your laugh. But I would have you laugh only when you feel like it. We have both seen too much of sorrow, Lady Catelyn. And I would not deny you your grief any more than I would have you deny mine.”

Then he was quiet again, and she watched his face slip back into the near expressionless mask that hid so much grief and worry. “I will not deny you your grief, Lord Eddard. I do hope I may be able to bring you some comfort for it.”

“Ned,” he said softly.

“What?” she asked, not following him.

“It would comfort me to have you call me Ned as my family always has. I have no family to speak my name now save Benjen . . .and Lyanna when I find her.”

She had known he was called Ned not only by family, but by many who knew him well. She’d heard Lord Arryn refer to him as such at dinner. But she’d not thought it proper that she should speak to him with such familiarity. “All right, my lord,” she said softly. “Ned.”

He smiled a little when she said his name, not the transforming grin from before, but still it was something. “Now, my lady, we should likely return to your lord father lest your septa convince him I have brought you here to dishonor you.”

She laughed again. “You saw her, did you?”

“Aye. I do not fault her for wishing to protect the virtue of so lovely a maiden.”

 _Brandon did,_ Catelyn thought, but she refrained from saying it aloud. “You are a kind man, Lord Eddard . . .Ned,” she said. “Thank you for speaking me with me this evening.”

He sighed. “Tomorrow will be difficult enough. I know that. I would not have you wed a complete stranger. Nor would I wish to do that, my lady.”

“Then you must call me by name as well. My family calls me Cat.”

“Cat?” he asked, looking almost amused. “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard of a cat being mated to direwolf.” 

“It’s only a name. Brandon didn’t speak it to you?”

“No. He spoke of you to us always as Lady Catelyn. As you said, my lady, he was an honorable man.”

She nodded, and they shared another moment of silence remembering the man they had both lost. Then she rose, and he rose with her, offering her his arm once more. She stood facing him for a moment before taking it and saw his eyes drift from hers. Unlike Brandon’s, however they did not wander immediately to her bosom. Instead his gaze hovered at the edges of her face, and she wondered about it.

“My lord?” she asked. “What are you looking at . . .Ned?”

His eyes came back to hers and he swallowed, looking almost as if he might have blushed had he her coloring. “Your hair,” he said almost inaudibly. “Brandon told me it was red, but it . . .it has so many colors--like a fire in the hearth, and . . .it is very beautiful.”

Brandon had told her he liked her hair. But he had never described it like that. Now this stranger, his brother, the man he’d described as reticent and tongue-tied and unable to string two words together in the presence of a girl, had made her feel as if her hair were fire--something alive and vibrant.

His face was close to hers, and she thought mayhap, he would kiss her. She thought mayhap she wanted him to. But he didn’t. He merely cleared his throat, placed her hand on his arm and began to walk back toward the castle. “We must go in, my lady.”

“Cat,” she said.

“Cat,” he echoed, and this time he clearly spoke it as her name.

She lay in bed awake for a long time that night, recalling their conversation. She was still anxious about the wedding and bedding that awaited her on the morrow, but no longer terrified. She still didn’t know Eddard Stark, Ned. But she thought she liked him. She thought mayhap she could trust him. He desired laughter from her, but wouldn’t force it. He seemed in many ways sadder and more solemn than anyone she had ever met, but had the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. Mayhap--if he survived this war, if the two of them were given time, if the gods smiled upon them even after all that had occurred--the two of them could find laughter together.


End file.
